


Time Between the Two of Us

by karmascars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Castiel Says Fuck, Established Relationship, I Love You, Let's Play Time Sex Bingo, M/M, One Shot, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, Rimming, Schmoop, Second Time, Time Travel, Top!Castiel, bottom!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-30
Updated: 2013-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-28 02:21:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/986530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmascars/pseuds/karmascars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>NEW EDITS! Updated 01/2016. || After the summoning of Raphael, Castiel is reeling with the news the archangel dropped on him. Dean, who firmly believes in escapism as a coping mechanism, helps him forget his troubles for a time when Castiel decides to do something a little unorthodox.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time Between the Two of Us

**Author's Note:**

> This is set between the scene with Raphael being (in Castiel's own words) a bitch, and the car scene, in episode 5x03.
> 
> For the purposes of this fic, Cas wasn't cut off from Heaven when he was resurrected--because if he was, he'd have limited mojo, and then this whole thing wouldn't work. Trust me, you want it to work. It's got to be one of the craziest ideas I've ever had.

****Dean runs the towel over his hair again even though it's mostly dry. He has no idea what to say.

Across the dim motel room Castiel stands rigid, his hands balled into fists. Wide blue eyes glitter wetly. He's still soaked, but as Dean watches, the water wicks itself from cloth and skin.

"Why would my Father allow all of this, Dean?" he asks, pained. "What you said had merit: He would not refrain from interfering if He knew. He _could not."_

"Cas..." Dean drops the towel, shrugging. "I'm not saying you're wrong, man, but I don't know what else to tell you."

Castiel's eyes dart away, fixing on nothing. He bites his lip and Dean watches him blink, spilling tears that catch the light. Dean has never seen an angel cry. It feels even more sacrilegious than anything else that's happened lately. Not to mention that it rips his heart right in friggin' half, but a specimen of manhood such as himself can't dwell on stuff like that. It leads to talks about feelings and (usually) Sam's scrunched-up face, and then Dean will just blast out all the eardrums in the car with mullet rock, still trying not to dwell on whatever it was.

But this is Castiel with reddened eyes, standing there all forlorn. There's just as much between them as Dean's got with Sam but in different places, all of it realized over a much shorter span of time. The depth and breadth of it continues to astound him. And he might be starting to understand just how much he owes this angel.

Phrases like _"you should show me some respect"_ and _"I can throw you back in"_ bounce their way around Dean's skull, the commanding tone of that gravel road voice sending a fresh shiver up his spine. But hot on the heels of those is a more recent, much nicer sound bite. No words, just everything Castiel needed to say in the vowel-filled space of an orgasm -- and Dean said it all right back, just as loudly.

The new dynamic between them allows for more _personally interpretive_ communication, much to Dean's delight. He never was very good at talking things out.

As he's thinking, Dean moves closer, with the soft rustle of denim and muffled clomp of his boots. His thin black t-shirt suddenly seems confining, somehow too hot, though it's actually cold enough in the room that his nipples are hard.

He can feel heat radiating from Castiel. Even from all the way over there, the guy is like a furnace.

"You don't think it's possible, do you?" Dean says, watching him carefully. The tears still haven't stopped, silently tracking down Castiel's face. Dean doesn't want to ask this, but he needs to, needs Castiel to tell him what he can't read. "Deadbeat dad, and the black sheep of the family is the one who brought you back?"

Still looking away, Castiel says stiffly, "I don't kn... No, I don't." He turns swollen, blazing eyes on Dean and Dean stops breathing.

"I don't believe any of that was true." Castiel nearly vibrates with anger. When he speaks, every word is sharp. "I _know_ He's out there somewhere!" But then, suddenly deflating, he seems to fold in on himself. "But He isn't, not anywhere," he says in a smaller voice. "Dean, I've searched everywhere."

Dean looks at him helplessly. Castiel inhales shakily, his exhale a shudder, his eyes like stolen oceans. Dean can't help it; he has to surge forward and wrap Castiel tightly in his arms.

Castiel shakes with a muffled sob, and Dean feels new tears soak through his t-shirt.

"Shh, Cas," he soothes, "it'll be all right."

"But it's not, and it won't -- and what is this?" Castiel moans. "I don't like feeling like this."

"This is... Well, it's grief, and what people call a 'drop'. 's like when you feel depressed after a fight," Dean says, drawing back, trying to look Castiel in the eye. _V_ _ery_ _human emotions_. "You don't need to focus on the negative right now."

He strokes the dark head for a bit, smiling when Castiel pulls back and meets his eyes. The tears have stopped but his eyes are pathetically red, his brows drawn.

Castiel sniffles. "How do I... not... do that?"

"We could go somewhere, get something to eat," Dean suggests. Castiel's lips purse as he considers it.

"I do not --"

"Require food, right," Dean finishes for him, kinda sick of hearing it.

Castiel gives him a small smile. "I was going to say, I don't think I'm interested in tasting anything tonight."

"Hmm... _Taste_ , you say," Dean murmurs, with a smirk and tilt of his head.

His breath curls against Castiel's face and he feels it back on his own skin, they're so close. "Last night was a smorgasbord," he says, remembering in a heady rush all that pale skin, moonlight throwing the angel's throes into sharp, memorable relief. Dean remembers sounds, tastes, sensations and goes weak in the knees. He tries not to let it show. "Now, you thinkin' continental?"

"Yes, what was it you said..." Castiel's eyes twinkle in merriment. "A condom, a chocolate bar --"

“-- and honeydew on toothpicks, yeah," Dean says and snares Castiel's lips with his own. Castiel shudders, moving into the kiss, his _mmph_ of approval lost when Dean swallows it and licks into his mouth.

Castiel moves back, teasing him, pressing kisses to Dean's lips, his chin, the line of his jaw. Dean's fingers card through Castiel's hair, lips finding his pulse point, teeth nipping at Castiel's skin.

"I will -- _mm_ , always be... interested, in... tasting -- a _h_ , you. _Dean,"_ Castiel barely manages to say, as Dean sucks tiny hickies into the skin of his throat. "Any and all of your tastes." He licks up behind Dean's ear, suckles on the lobe.

Dean whines. He _needs_. He's half-hard already, seeking friction against Castiel's thigh.

In unspoken agreement they break apart, Dean rucking up his own shirt. Castiel shrugs out of his trench coat. "I need to _not think_ for awhile," he says, moving back into Dean's space and attaching to Dean's collarbone the moment it's in view. His fingers scrabble across Dean's chest, tweaking his nipples.

With a hiss at the sudden bite of pleasure, Dean tosses his shirt aside.

"What did you have in mind?" he asks, guiding Castiel back up for another filthy kiss.

"I -- _Ah!_ I want to take you," Castiel says when he can, the rest of the sentence lost in a moan that hitches when Dean yanks open his suit jacket, tugs up his shirts, and runs warm callused hands over his skin.

"Take me where?" Dean asks breathlessly, pressing kisses up Castiel's neck, hands on his belt.

"Anywhere, everywhere, any position and all of them -- I want to show you what you've shown me."

Dean's hands find the angel's hips and grip tight. He's breathing hard; they're standing cheek-to-cheek, and suddenly, it's like Castiel needs to see what's going on behind his eyes.

"Dean?" He ducks back, around, chasing Dean's elusive gaze. Dean can feel himself flushing redder.

Castiel frowns. "What is the matter?"

"You, uh," Dean's voice is harsh, and he has to clear his throat. "You want to fuck me?"

"Yes," Castiel says simply. Dean gapes at him. One of Dean's hands slides out of Castiel's clothes.

"Cas, I, uh," Dean begins haltingly, rubbing at the back of his neck. Castiel moves closer, peering at Dean's face so he has to look him in the eye. Mere inches away, Dean can see every fleck of silver and darkness in those blue eyes.

"Dean," Castiel says quietly. "I want to show you just how wonderful you are."

"Oh, yeah?" Dean can't help falling back on bravado, saying, "How's your dick gonna --"

"Dean." That tone brooks no argument. Dean snaps his mouth shut. "Everything I know about sex, I learned from you," Castiel says. "Quite recently, might I add."

His eyes are softer than the line of his lips. "In all the time I've known you, I have seen the low value you place on your self-worth. I would like the chance to prove you wrong, as well as provide... an escape, of sorts."

"Kinda like a 'Get Out of the Apocalypse, Free' card?" Dean jokes.

Castiel seems to recognize the tone but the sentence must still go over his head, because he replies like he normally would. Literally. "We cannot stop the Apocalypse by fucking, Dean."

Dean laughs at that, if a bit rueful. "Yeah, I wish."

"We can, however, forget about it for a time."

"Sex as brain bleach," Dean says, laughing again, though this one is completely bereft of humor. "Can't say I haven't been there."

"With you," Castiel says, cupping Dean's jaw, "I find I am able to... postpone my troubles, for the time we are together. Not because that is all I find with you, but because you are all I wish to --"

"Shut up and kiss me," Dean growls, slamming their mouths together with so little finesse that blood wells, bright copper amid the taste of toothpaste. Castiel suckles on Dean's tongue as it maps his mouth. Stubble snags, and a moan escapes.

Castiel tastes like coffee and chocolate and some kind of baking spice, cardamom or cloves. Dean wants that taste to linger in his mouth for days, and he kisses Castiel like he can lick up every drop. Their hands roam, finding skin and claiming it, pinching, stroking, so hot where their bodies press together. Castiel kisses up Dean's jawline, finding his earlobe and suckling fiercely, his own sharp hum of pleasure drowning Dean's _ah!_ of surprise.

"Can I have you, Dean?" he inquires, lips brushing Dean's ear.

Dean's eyes roll back, hips bucking with intent. "Yeah, Cas," he groans, "yeah. Take me." He breathes the end of that sentence into Castiel's neck, and punctuates grabbing the tendon there between his teeth. He's trying to undo the buttons of Castiel's dress shirt without looking, but he's never been very good with tiny buttons and is just about to rip the thing apart--one way or another, he gets it open, and rucks up the undershirt beneath to expose planes of delicious skin, and a hint of hair leading down.

"Take you --" Castiel bares his neck further, one hand fumbling with Dean's belt, "-- where?"

"Anywhere, Cas, shit," Dean says, mostly focused on doing the same to him. He gets the zipper down before Castiel does, shoves the slacks down til they simply vanish, with socks and shoes -- and then he's got Castiel's swelling cock in hand. Dean grins at his angel, drinking in the sight of a lip pinched crimson between white teeth.

Then Castiel gets a firm grip on his cock, too. Their hands move in unison.

Twin ragged gasps meet in the middle.

Both their hips follow instinct, rutting. The heads of their cocks slide together, their hands working up to a rhythm, like all there is in the world right now is the act of getting off. Sparks fly up and down their nerves, zinging with simple pleasure. Dean's lost in it, he doesn't realize they're moving with their thrusts like some crazy hip-fuck dance until the bed catches the backs of his knees.

He sits down, hard on the mattress -- and smirks like a lucky fox when he discovers he's eye-level with Castiel's tasty cock. _Don't mind if I do._ He's got his lips around the head and his tongue teasing the slit before Castiel can finish forming his name.

That one syllable becoming twelve is the sweetest music Dean's heard.

One of Castiel's hands scrabbles through his hair. Dean grins, humming around the dick in his mouth, answering Castiel's shiver with a shoulder-roll shake of his own. He's rusty at this, but after the fiasco last night, he knows just how much he can take -- so he does, barely choking when he tries to draw breath.

The rhythm he sets is slow because it has to be, taking Castiel this punishingly deep. Dean's throat flutters around the head every time he buries his lips and nose in wiry curls. He pulls back, swirling his tongue and sucking, hot and wet, and he knows that Castiel must be losing his mind up there. The stuttered groans, abortive jerks of his hips in Dean's firm grip are turning Dean on like crazy.

Suddenly, Castiel says his name, a warning. He's already close.

Dean pulls off completely with a sloppy swirl of his tongue, smacking an exaggerated kiss on the head.

Castiel shudders, one hand to his face. "Dean, the things you do to me --"

"What, me?" Dean says, staring up at him with innocent eyes. "I'm just havin' fun."

Castiel glares at him like he's committing a cardinal sin, and worse, he's doing it _wrong_.

"What!?" Dean laughs up at him.

The laugh becomes a yelp when Castiel shoves him backwards atop the bed. Strong hands grip his waistbands tight, and with a _shoof_ of fabric Dean finds himself completely naked -- well, except for Castiel leaving the binding clothing tangled around his ankles, with what for an instant looks like a very satisfied smirk.

Dean's got no time to worry, though, because in the very next moment Castiel flips him over, pulling his hips up, presenting his ass in a way that makes Dean feel both vulnerable and desired. It's an odd feeling, not unwelcome. The purr that rumbles through Castiel's chest -- Dean knows it's because he's luxuriating in the sight -- sends a cramp through Dean's gut. His cock twitches hard, a few drops of precome beading and sliding from the tip to stain the comforter.

A hand kneads his ass, the briefest of claims.

"Cas--?" The name becomes a gasp. Dean's not expecting a tongue to rub up over his perineum and flick at his hole like it's sampling something sweet. Castiel fucking _moans_ as he tastes, that glorious tongue flicking, smoothing, laving over the little entrance. Dean squirms, wanting more, but he's so embarrassed and he doesn't even know why.

 _He's eating me out like a fucking girl, why do I_ \-- OH. An equally embarrassing noise escapes. Dean closes his eyes against the helplessness of it, hips canting backward, his rim fluttering. His body is desperate to be tasted.

Castiel's tongue spears Dean open, and Dean discovers a whole new register to his voice.

"Cas, _fuck, God_ \-- your fucking _mouth_ \--" He can't stop the flow of obscenities. Sex talk with an angel of the Lord is still so new, and almost thrillingly wrong. Dean kind of loves it. "Christ on a fucking cra _ah! Caaas_ ," he mewls the name, paragraphs long in one ululating vowel, and he begins a new one louder when Castiel nudges a fingertip in alongside his tongue.

It burns a little. Of course it does, it's been years since he's been fucked by a guy, and he almost never gets up in there himself unless he's drunk and feeling particularly frisky. More recently a few girls have asked, pulling out their own harnesses and scary purple additions, but Dean never really got into the mood for that with them.

Now, with Cas? Dean feels like he could take anything and still beg for more, and Dean really tries not to beg.

"Cas, please; oh, God, please --"

Well, _tries_ being the operative word.

"Shh," Castiel hums into Dean's skin, just above his pucker, and the skin draws in, reacting to the sensation. Dean can feel it; he flexes experimentally, just as Castiel slips that finger in to his second knuckle.

"Shit!" Dean bites his lip. "Do that again."

Castiel slides in deeper, wriggling his finger, and there's something he brushes against that feels --

Dean sees nothing but static. "That, right there, what the fuck?" he asks breathlessly. "What was -- oh God, _oh God_ \--" because of course Castiel won't just tease something that can affect Dean like this. He lays on the pressure, sliding over that spot in spirals and circles, his breathing growing harsher against Dean's skin.

"I love it when you lose control," he sighs darkly, nipping Dean's ass, his thigh, pressing a prickly cheek to smooth flesh and sliding his unoccupied hand around to clasp Dean's dripping cock.

Dean whimpers when he does.

Two fingers, now, slick with lube that Cas pulled from _somewhere,_ moving over Dean's prostate in maddening circles. Dean is a writhing mess. He begs Castiel to _just get in him_ , something he sincerely hopes no one else can hear.

"Come on, Cas," he whines. "I'm not a friggin' girl."

"You will be grateful for this consideration when I am inside you," Castiel says, and that voice saying _inside you_ so seriously drags up another nerve-searing wave of desire. Dean's cock jumps in Castiel's hand, and he seriously doesn't think he'll ever be able to carry on a conversation with him again. Every time he hears that voice, he'll be insta-hard and needy.

"Caaas," he keens into the mattress, hips fucking back for more of those fingers.

Castiel swipes roughly over his prostate to shut him up, growling, "Make those animal noises if you like, but don't fucking rush me."

 _Oh,_ and that's _the hottest thing,_ a kink Dean that didn't know he had --

He seizes up, coming so hard he sobs it out, clenching helplessly around Castiel's fingers.

"Say that again," he says when he can, his voice wrecked, aftershocks tripping through the words.

Castiel is still milking him through it, deftly adding a third finger between languid pulls of Dean's softening cock. "Don't," he repeats, pulling away just when it becomes too much, and Dean's cock twitches, "fucking," and Castiel twists his hand inside Dean, grazing his prostate and skating on past it, scissoring, opening Dean and earning a groan that he must feel at his fingertips, "rush," he says, pulling the fingers out slowly.

Dean's whimper at their loss is muffled by the pile of comforter against his mouth. He feels the blunt head of Castiel's cock probing his entrance, and sucks in a noisy breath. He holds it when Castiel pauses, the world halting in its spin --

"Me," Castiel snaps the end of his sentence and sheathes himself in one, devastating stroke.

Suddenly filled, the noise Dean makes is a wondrous feral cry, layered in feeling. It also echoes. Dean notices _that_ before he notices that in place of a bed beneath him, his hands and knees are beginning to complain against cool marble. Darkness stretches all around him, the faintest of lights off to one side.

Castiel pulls out slowly. The long slide of him grinds along inside Dean, sexual torture at its lingering finest -- and when he punches back in, Dean's wail bounces sharp and bright against unseen walls, followed by all sorts of noises when Castiel immediately sets a punishing rhythm.

A warm body drapes over Dean's back, hot lips straining for the back of his neck.

"You should try to be quieter," Castiel says, a sibilant murmur Dean can feel inside and out. "You are a work of art, but I believe it is still illegal to fuck in a museum." Dean can't help a low moan at the shape and texture of that word in Castiel's mouth.

Then "Wait, a what?" Dean tries to force himself to whisper; it ends up coming out in harsh fits and starts to the timing of Castiel's hips.

Castiel's laugh is more devilish than it has any right to be, and he says, "I've always wanted to visit the Louvre."

Dean knows what that is. He knows _where_ that is. He clenches his ass tight as he can to try and hold Castiel still.

It doesn't really work.

"Are you telling me," he demands too loudly, Castiel jolting him again and again, "that we are fucking in a _museum,_ in fucking _France?"_

"Did you alliterate intentionally, or --"

_"Cas!"_

"Yes, we are," Castiel says, grinding forward, his cock punching in so deep that Dean forgets what he's talking about.

Oh, yeah.

"Why here?" Dean has to ask, because the answer to _How in the fuck?_ is kind of obvious.

"You said anywhere," Castiel reminds him. The scene changes, shadows and marble morphing into cloth and smoke. "I tend to take things literally." There's rue in his tone Dean's not touching right now; this is supposed to be helping the poor guy relax.

"Where's this now?" Dean's looking around but he can't see much beyond tasseled pillows, draperies drowning in golden thread, all of it jewel-toned and bedecked in a Middle Eastern style. As he's fucked, his face is buried further and further in some kind of musty fur.

"I believe," Castiel says, digging his nails into Dean's bare hips, "we are somewhere in Saudi Arabia." Dean is prepared for the renewed thrusts, but he still can't seem to keep himself quiet. The second, third, fourth he's all right, but on the fifth one Castiel angles his hips up and damn, Dean didn't know he could howl like that.

Foreign voices erupt, and somewhere close by, canvas flaps against the wind. Dean hears a _sword_ being drawn --

All sound fades to breezes playing through long, linen curtains, and the slap of Castiel's hips against Dean's ass. Whatever this is below him, some kind of carpet that feels like it's made of silk, is far too soft and expensive to _not_ fuck on.

"New York," Castiel says, pulling out. He flops Dean unceremoniously to one side -- the constricting jeans disappear, along with Dean's boots and threadbare socks -- and Castiel lifts one of Dean's legs, slotting back inside him like they were made to fit together. "Penthouse over --  _unh_ , Central Park."

That grunt is the first remotely sexual noise he's made. Dean cranes his neck and makes sure Castiel can see his shit-eating grin.

Castiel scrunches his face up, thrusting harder.

"Dean --" doesn't give him time to bitch about it, throwing his leg all the way over, not breaking their connection. Once he's on his back, he uses his legs to pull Castiel in close. Their hips find such a synchronized rhythm that it's not pounding or thrust-and-catch at all. They're just swaying back and forth, Castiel pressed so deep inside of Dean that they move in a kind of drunken tango where the dancers interlock. Dean reaches up to swipe sweat from Castiel's brow and just drinks him in, all flushed and dark-eyed; his usual, calm distance dashed aside by carnal fever.

"The things we do to each other, huh?" Dean says, low, agreeing with what he's reading on Castiel's face.

The words seem to get Castiel where Castiel's voice has been getting Dean all evening. His hips stutter harder, faster. Strike and again, hammer and nail; Castiel is the weapon and Dean, the forge.

He pulls out and Dean's whole body moves with him -- Dean hadn't realized just how hypnotic a good, long fuck can be.

"Up," Castiel snarls, yanking on Dean's arm. Dean follows on unsteady feet, only to be manhandled back against a wall. It's not an interior wall, either, but rough natural brick, and Dean can hear a train whistle faintly over the bustling sounds of nearby civilization. It smells and feels like spring; new growth, the taint of the city, and fresh petrichor.

"I don't just want to love you anywhere," Castiel says, pressing in, capturing Dean's lips in a move that's more of a claim than a kiss. "I want you any _when_."

A large vehicle rumbles by, somewhere close, but Dean's too focused on the impatient angel in his arms to care about being seen. He's got one hand up the back of Castiel's shirts, the other cupping his bare ass, pulling hips against hips. His erection, now thoroughly back in the game, grinds against Castiel's in the closing space between them.

Hazily, he thinks of that show Sam likes to watch -- Thinking of Sam right now is painful, and thinking of Sam during sex should be prohibited, but the quote his brain feeds him makes him smile. He slides his face up Castiel's, smiling into the catch and burn of stubble, and mouths toward his ear to murmur, "All of space and time -- where do you want to start?"

 _"Dean."_ Castiel sags in his arms --

then spins him, fetching up behind him, cock slotting perfectly into the cleft of Dean's ass. Dean can't help his shiver. He hears the snap of a bottle lid, probably that same lube -- _Was it in your pocket?_ he wonders wryly --but he still isn't really prepared for the fat shove of Castiel back inside him, nor how _tender_ his ass is already.

Dean yowls like a scalded cat, but Castiel thrusts again, and again, and pain becomes pleasure that soon has him gasping for more.

Abruptly, everything around them changes.

"Scotland, 1328," Castiel says raggedly. The wall is now waist high, and Dean stumbles forward, catching his hands on rough-hewn stone. There's fog swirling low to the ground. The clanging and shouts of an unseen battle ring out all around them.

With a curse, Dean bucks backward, deepening Castiel's onslaught -- Castiel cries out, clutching him, biting at his shoulder blade and dragging hard nails down his arm.

Cloudy moor becomes sunny beach, the wall now a sturdy pilaster beneath a massive wooden pier. Far overhead, seagulls scream, and somewhere nearby ring peals of laughter.

"Coney Island," Castiel gasps, but Dean's already chuckling, twisting and shouting to be heard over the waves. "That's New York twice, Cas, doesn't count!" He gets a slap on the thigh for his snark, and a change of scenery; sand becomes gravel --

"Santa Cruz, then, bitch," Castiel snarls, angling up for that spot that has Dean sagging, entirely unable to protest being labeled the same as friggin' _Raphael --_ His head flops back on Castiel's shoulder, Castiel's name and some garbled filth falling from his lips in increasingly higher tones.

"Fuck, Cas, _Cas._ _"_ He's gonna come, he's gonna come right n--

Castiel fumbles around their bodies for Dean's cock, and clamps down tight on the base. Dean fumbles at his hand with a hiss. "Shit, easy!" The grip is like a vise.

"Hush," Castiel says, almost petulantly. "You've already come once, and you told me coming dry hurts you." He eases up slightly, massaging Dean's cock in little pulses. "I never want to hurt you."

"Me neither," Dean says, his chest growing tight with a surge of emotion. Time has sped up slightly, the sun on a marathon track as it sets. Time-lapsed light paints the wood beneath Dean's hands; sets what of Castiel's skin he can see ablaze in ruddy color.

He wishes he could see what it looks like on Castiel's face.

"Cas --"

"1944, Berlin," Castiel grates in his ear, slamming him flat against the wall, now stories high and made of brown-painted cinder block.

Dean flinches, his hips unconsciously seeking friction. The surface is cold despite the afternoon warmth, but one agonizing drag and he's gasping for more. Castiel obliges, quick rocks of his hips into Dean's, his hand between the scorch of Dean's cock and the cool of the wall. He fucks so deep that Dean feels pierced, split open, overcome and so goddamn _full_.

He rises up on his toes, gaping, his mind completely blank. He's all chill and nerves aflame. Castiel ruts into him like an animal, poise and sense forgotten, pressing Dean's cheek to the wall.

Wind rustles through trees, down the alley they're rutting in. Somewhere, they can hear a crowd roaring.

 _It's like we're bringing love to all the chaos_ , Dean thinks hazily.

 _Wait, that's lame, don't say that_.

What he does yell is, "Hitler can suck it!"

It's awesome, even if his voice cracks when Castiel thrusts his very deepest again --

then all Dean can do is sink into the rush of his own heartbeat as his eyes cross.

Castiel rips Dean away from the wall. He goes down on his hands and knees in lush grass, beside some kind of manicured hedge. There's some kind of stilted, lively classical music being played on twangy strings. Dean can hear laughter and bubbling conversation nearby. It sounds like --

"18th century France," Castiel murmurs, reaching out and wrapping his hand around Dean's forehead, yanking Dean's head back til his neck feels overextended, his breathing harsh. Castiel licks a stripe up the side of Dean's neck and says, hot on his ear, "Yet another repetition, I know, but this is one of Louis XVI's garden parties."

"Couldn't resist, huh?" Dean doesn't recognize his own voice.

He feels Castiel grin, and wishes he could see it.

"You should try to be quiet."

Hips like pistons, Castiel pounds into Dean anew with sharp slaps of flesh and all the stealth of a Howitzer.

Dean's eyes slip closed again. He's just trying to keep his breaths from coming in such loud, shrieking gasps, but it's not working. Castiel is _fucking him through time,_ and Dean doesn't know if he'll survive the onslaught. His angel's cock is a blessing, splitting him into atoms as they writhe together. Castiel's other hand digs painfully into his hip, pulling him into each thrust harder, faster, and Dean drags in a sobbing breath.

"Sacre _bleu!"_

"Merde," Castiel mutters and Dean laughs high, hysterical. The hedge and distant spinet become a weed-sown hillside, and the sound of a motorcade.

"Wait, this is..." the angel sounds confused, clutching almost absently in Dean's hair.

Dean can feel him looking around. "Doesn't matter, keep moving," he grunts, clenching, digging twitching hands into the overgrown weeds on the ground and driving back, hard. His knees sink in to sodden earth and he couldn't care less -- his balls are drawing up tighter and tighter, sparks of pleasure spiraling upward in a firestorm of _wantneednow_ and _Cas_ that all but consumes him.

He tosses his head, whining, "Fuck, Cas," and Castiel smacks his ass in response, hard, with an open-palm.

It almost, _almost_ covers the sound of a gunshot.

"I know where we are," Castiel says, wonder and alarm --

And then they're not.

Wherever this is now looks like a furniture store. The night outside the plate glass windows has settled in shades of blue and artificial light. Dean runs his fingers through high-pile carpet, wincing at the price tag dangling from the couch in front of him.

Castiel pulls out. Dean hisses as cool air hits exposed areas, the warmth of Castiel's body moving away.

"Cas, what're you, _hn_ \--"

The breath gets punched out of him when Castiel's tongue probes, teases the tenderized flesh, working its way inside of Dean and stroking him almost lovingly. Castiel lets out a groan that Dean can feel up through his teeth. He's sensitive in ways he never could have imagined before now.

Blasphemy kicks its way out of his mouth. He's mumbling all kinds of filth, rocking back on Castiel's face. That sinful tongue fucks in and out in neat little strokes, Castiel's lips sealed and sucking around Dean's rim. Dean's whole body is seizing in some bizarre fit of sexual epilepsy. He can't control the _unh--unh--unh_ being ripped from him in a steady, reactionary stream. His cock is diamond-hard, dripping wet.

The sudden absence of a tongue in his ass is criminal. Dean whimpers his displeasure, hips swaying, shadows dipping and sliding around the room as he moves.

"Cas --" His whisper is sub-vocal, but Castiel always hears him. "Take me away."

Castiel flips him neatly onto his back. Dean feels expensive carpet become silk sheets as Castiel re-sheathes himself in one fluid motion. Buried deep inside, he hovers over Dean, eyes like the night sky burning straight through Dean lying lissome and impaled beneath him. Behind him rises a vaulted ceiling.

"You really are --" he begins, but Dean cuts him off with a groan that's more heat than anything. His body clutches Castiel's cock possessively.

"Don't tell me I'm your pretty princess, Cas."

Castiel chuckles fondly, drawing back. "I wouldn't dream of it, Dean," he says, and on the name he fucks in deep, jolting a sound from Dean. "You are astounding, colorful --" On each endearment he plunges deeper, a punishing depth and power to his strokes. Dean's fingers are white where they've gathered fistfuls of his jacket. "-- but most of all, you are so very generous."

"Really?" Dean asks, strained. His rim pulls at Castiel as they move.

"Yes," Castiel groans, buried to the hilt. "Yes," he says again, lips and teeth adhering to Dean's neck.

"You give me so much," he breathes across Dean's skin.

Eyes rolling back, Dean grapples at Castiel with his legs, heels sliding up, bunching up the black suit jacket. Jostling, sweet smacks into one another. Dean grabs for the headboard, the wall, anything. One hand finds the back of Castiel's neck and pulls him down.

Their sweaty foreheads meet. They pant each others' air as Castiel plunders Dean, the drag of his cock like the ebb and flow of some erotic tide. Dean licks salt from his lips, and catches Castiel's in a breathless kiss, practically graceless. In turn Castiel sucks Dean's bottom lip in, holding it between his teeth, one hand clasping Dean's thigh -- his tongue breaks the hold of his teeth and fucks in and out of Dean's mouth in time with his hips, a low growl building in his chest.

Dean can feel Castiel everywhere. This is hands-down the most intense sex he's ever had. Dean's hands drag rampant across Castiel's back, and for one transcendental moment, he could swear he feels _wings_ beneath his questing fingertips.

He sucks Castiel's tongue into his mouth, hard, wracked with a dirty shiver as he does.

When they finally break apart so Dean can breathe, Castiel rears back above him, and Dean drinks in the sight. Dark mop of hair sex-tousled, color high on his cheeks, Castiel stares at Dean staring for scant moments before a wave of power bursts from him. Dean can feel it, cosmic energy and something so pure it burns.

In the wash of it, Castiel's eyes darken, his pupils blowing wide until only a tiny pinprick of light defines the pits of black.

"You are mine," he says fiercely. All the lights in the place -- that Dean hadn't even looked at properly -- begin to flicker. Windows rattle in their frames. A threatening whine arises.

"Tell me how you really feel," Dean gasps.

Castiel takes him seriously.

"You make me -- feel so -- so _unnh_ , so hot. _Deannn_ ," he moans, ducking to nip at Dean's jawline, turning and nosing into his pulse. "So _fucking hot_ ," he snarls, like he's affronted. He clamps down on Dean's throat, Dean shuddering beneath him. Dean can feel his heartbeat held in Castiel's mouth and he lets out a needy noise, thrashing, but Castiel holds on and sucks _hard,_ drawing out everything Dean has to give. It's gonna leave one hell of a bruise.

This place they're in now doesn't smell like the expensive bedroom; more like a garden, fresh soil and growing things. There's sun on Dean's face, but he keeps his eyes closed. He doesn't much care where they are in the face of _how fucking good this feels_. Castiel's tongue laves over the marks of his teeth and Dean can feel it on his cock, trapped between their bellies.

He torques his hips down for more, but Castiel is pulling out, guiding him up on his knees and around. Castiel lies back with a encouraging smile. Dean straddles his hips, reaching underneath to position his cock again, smirking when it flexes in his hand and Castiel hisses between clenched teeth. A single bead of sweat is making its way down the side of his face.

The head of him breaches Dean once more, and Dean sinks slowly down the length with a shudder and a sigh.

Once he's seated to the hilt, Dean twists experimentally, rock and a hop. Castiel tosses his head against the ground with a little moan.

"Do you even know where we are right now?" Dean smirks down at him, grinding harder. The head of Castiel's cock skims his prostate, and his eyes flutter against his will. _"Oh..."_ Electricity sluices through his veins.

"I know where I am," Castiel says, hands running possessively up Dean's thighs. "I'm inside you."

Dean raises himself slowly, holding Castiel's gaze. "That's good enough, I guess --" He slams himself down, and a noise he'd never admit to making comes out, so he gives up on talking.

Castiel snaps his hips straight up and Dean jerks, works up and drops back down. He's practically bouncing on Castiel's cock, working mindlessly over hard, fat heat.

"God, Cas, you are _so fucking g_ \--"

"Shut up, Dean," Castiel breathes, grabbing hold of Dean's cock. Nimble fingers slide over the length and twist on the head, rough thumb catching the underside. Castiel's fingers ripple-clench, an echo of what Dean must feel like around the molten hardness inside him. Dean remembers. He could die tomorrow, but he won't ever forget how it felt to be inside Castiel.

Apropos of everything, his eyes sting.

"So fucking _good_ ," he whispers, stricken, head thrown back. He can see the sky, a gorgeous full blue like it's never been before.

Dean snaps forward, and actually looks around.

His eyes widen in disbelief.

"Cas," he whispers hoarsely. "Cas, is this --"

"On the seventh day, my Father rested," Castiel interrupts with a knowing quirk of his lips. "Everything was new and pristine."

He sits up, drawing his legs beneath Dean and holding him in his lap. Pinned on his cock, Dean strokes through Castiel's hair, gazing down at him with a watery, incredulous grin he can't contain.

The angel gives him a tired smile. "I thought since Armageddon is nigh, I ought to show you what the Earth was like upon her conception." He gestures toward the open spaces.

Dean has no words. The untouched splendor around him constricts his chest, a tear rolling down his cheek. He can't speak, so he gazes down at Castiel and hopes everything he's feeling can be read in his eyes, because he sure as hell has no idea how to say it.

One trembling finger finds Castiel's chin and tips him up. Those blue eyes are shining. When Dean's lips meet his they're both shaking, breathing in sharp and quick.

Castiel is the first to close his eyes. Tears escape his reddened eyelids. He tilts his head to kiss Dean properly.

They shift as they kiss and remember the heat, Castiel's cock flexing deep inside of Dean. Fingers catch against stubble on cheeks, lips burning with it. Joined at the hips, they rock; slowly at first but building up speed, heat and steam coursing through veins from one to the other and back again. Their kiss turns filthy, wide-open mouths, tongues tangling desperate and wanting.

Dean pushes himself upward, thighs tensing. Castiel's cock feels a mile long as draws from his body. His lips leave Castiel's. He has a brief glimpse of blue eyes, swathed in wide, black pupil; his lips, flushed and kiss-plump, parted and shiny and wet.

Then Dean slams himself back down with a wanton cry, watching those eyes roll up -- Castiel leans back, steadies with a hand in the _brand new earth_ , and shoves up into Dean with a stuttered roll of his hips and a noise that sounds as helpless as it does incendiary.

Falling forward, Dean plants his hands on Castiel's chest, attempting to ground himself. Like a buzz in the periphery, the tingle of his skin tells him that he'll have a sunburn when this is over--but he's far too focused on fucking down on Castiel, reaching for nirvana with every urgent twitch of his hips. Every thrust stimulates his prostate, singes his very cells, and kicks him closer to the sky.

"So close... Cas," he pants, mindless. "I love you, I fucking love -- _ungh --_ "

Castiel's eyes fly wide, his entire body tensing; he utters a few choked syllables and he comes, violently, lighting Dean up like a pinball machine with the sudden swell of his cock deep inside. That and his subsequent groan shake something loose in Dean, whose hips stutter down, his legs failing to hold him.

Orgasm hits in a velvet wave. Dean's cock blurts white all over Castiel's stomach and chest, his mind so much blissful static, body clenching fitfully.

In the aftermath, Dean slides bonelessly forward, letting his chest hit Castiel's -- and the mess has already disappeared. Pristine grass becomes a motel bed, the cheap comforter sliding and bunching beneath Dean's legs when he stretches them out.

Castiel's cock slips out, but he doesn't move, holding Dean close. It's still evening here, dark, but Dean can smell the fresh-sex scent of Castiel just fine without his eyes. He can hear breaths and beginnings of words as rumbles and sighs within the chest below his ear.

Gradually, as his breathing slows, Dean's night vision adjusts. When he's regained enough strength to lift his sweaty head, he leans in for a kiss and revels in the sight of his angel's face. Castiel looks _wrecked,_ completely spent and satiated.

Dean, licking across Castiel's lips, thinks he could kiss them forever. Beneath him, Castiel hums contentedly. He'd probably agree.

The shape of Dean's name as it's murmured into his mouth is lightly teasing, and Dean eats the sounds from Castiel with lazy swipes of his tongue. Castiel sucks on him for a moment, then tries to pull back. "Dean," is muffled by another kiss. Chuckling, he presses back further into the bed. "Dean, what you said..."

"Mmm?" Dean licks the lines of Castiel's lips again, nipping the bottom one with gentle teeth. "What'd I say?"

Castiel stills. Not abruptly, but Dean feels it. He pulls back on an elbow, studying the body beneath him. He knows exactly what he said.

"Cas --"

"You don't have to say it," the angel murmurs, still looking at Dean but with eyes so shuttered it's like they're closed.

Dean brings up a finger to Castiel's chin, then boops him gently on the nose. "Cas," he says, "I really do love you."

Blue eyes that hold the whole night sky shine like the stars, too.

"God help me, but I do," Dean whispers. "You just kinda... waltzed into my life, and... now, I don't think I can friggin' live without you."

He ducks to kiss Castiel again, with a tenderness that leaves them both flustered.

"If it's any consolation, I don't think you'll have to," Castiel tells him softly. "I love you as well, and I will do anything within my power to stay by your side."

"That's fucking awesome." Dean burrows happily into Castiel's shoulder, breathing him in deeply. "I'm gonna snuggle you now -- Don't ever tell anyone," he warns. He's got a reputation to maintain, after all.

Castiel's indulgent laughter is a warm burr against his cheek, lips pressing a kiss to his temple. Dean is incredibly content. It might have something to do with the fact that now, he knows Castiel will always be with him. It's like Cas is so fond of saying -- they've got a 'more profound bond'.

Otherwise known as pretty goddamn perfect.

Eventually, Dean rolls to the side, reaching for his phone. "Two hours," he says. He sets an alarm, then collapses back into Castiel's arms. "Then we gotta hit the road."

Their fingers entwine. Castiel studies them.

"Just like... Thelma and Louise," he says.

Dean huffs a laugh. "What?"

"What you said, before... 'hold hands like Thelma and Louise'." Castiel finds Dean's eyes easily in the dark. "Though there is no cliff here."

"The cliff was a metaphor anyway, in this case," Dean says, yawning. "But no, no cliffs. No more suicide missions. Okay, Cas?"

The angel nods, snuffling in closer to Dean's neck. Dean can feel the regular rise and fall of his chest, the muted thud of his heart. _Hard to believe he's not human, sometimes_ , Dean thinks with a smile. _Sometimes, he's just this regular guy. Well, never_ regular _, not really_. Dean's dick gives a valiant but very exhausted twitch.

_Cas is... He's..._

_He's fucking amazing_.

Castiel exhales deeply, low rumble of sound in his throat, lips working against Dean's skin.

"What was that?" Dean murmurs.

"I said, there is no better time than that between the two of us," his angel tells him drowsily.

Dean falls asleep thinking that's the truest thing he's heard in a good long while.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> If you liked this fic, please consider leaving kudos/a comment. I really appreciate feedback. ♥


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